


Nubivagant

by GenericUsername01



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Ballroom Dancing, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), DOES NOT INCLUDE THE FALL, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, Nesting, Other, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Rating May Change?, Sigils, Wings, angelic courtship rituals, angelic rank/class being a big deal, angels were victorian before it was cool, courting, crowley does not stay an angel in this verse, gabriel is an ass but mostly accidentally, halos, michael is an evil angel, only a little, people are pretty much the same and just react to circumstance, personalities do not drastically change by falling, pure romance, relationship in Heaven, screw it maybe angels USED to dance, self-indulgent and mostly plotless, the story just ends well before that point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericUsername01/pseuds/GenericUsername01
Summary: There was a time before time, before the first sin, before humans, before any angel had Fallen, when Heaven wasn't quite so cold. When angels used to be freer with one another, trusting and content and affectionate. They would fall in love and court each other and marry. Michael was still training up her army, so many angels were armed and braced for an unknown threat, you still had to be careful what you said and to who. It wasn't perfect.It wasn't perfect, but before, when the Choirs sang, angels used to dance.





	1. Bureaucracy

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley and Michael's pronouns will vary throughout this fic, and Beelzebub will be referred to with they/them. Raziel is Ligur, credit to monkeycup on tumblr for that idea. Iahhel is Hastur, Sarathiel is Dagon.
> 
> Alright. So about the archangels. First of all, the idea of a small group being capital-A Archangels above all of Heaven as opposed to the second-lowest rank containing thousands is a commonly held /theological/ idea and Neil Gaiman was not the first to say that lol. Also the only ones everyone universally agrees on are Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, Uriel to a lesser extent but not always. Even the actual number of true Archangels is debated, and once you get past the main three, any sort of consensus just falls apart. My other fics have just the four that were basically canon and had them all be siblings, but idk, this fic won't do that, no angels are related, and Samael (future Satan), Raguel, and Remiel are the other archangels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's dull. I ended it where I did just for the drama. There will be an increasing level of concentrated romance and flirting as we go, also time will begin to exist just so that I can use units of time in narrative

There was a time before time, before the first sin, before humans, before any angel had Fallen, when Heaven wasn't quite so cold. When angels used to be freer with one another, trusting and content and affectionate. They would fall in love and court each other and marry. Michael was still training up her army, so many angels were armed and braced for an unknown threat, you still had to be careful what you said and to who. It wasn't perfect.

It wasn't perfect, but before, when the Choirs sang, angels used to dance.

* * *

Time, per se, did not exist. Neither did night or day, despite the fact there was a specific angel of night who had yet to figure out what exactly she was supposed to be doing. To be honest, even if night and day did exist already, Heaven certainly would not observe it. As such, this meant time was not divided into any measurable segments at all-- speaking of the existence of time theoretically, of course, as it was something that would happen in the future.

The time before time existed was very difficult to talk about.

Anyway, Heaven was operating as a business, with meetings and everything, but it could not be said when or how often these meetings were. They couldn't be daily, because there was no delineation of days. They couldn't be considered weekly or monthly either, for the same reason. They also were completely impossible to schedule. Meetings were announced and proposed by telepathically beaming the idea over to the relevant parties, as soon as it was reasonable to have a meeting.

Gabriel was working on coming up with a better system.

The Archangels were in a meeting.

With Beelzeble, which was always unpleasant.

Beelzeble was one of Raphael's, technically, a healer angel. But as mentioned, only technically. They didn't actually do any healing (alright so far there was nothing in the universe to heal, but that was beside the point) and were a Dominion in charge of managing the lower Choirs of angels in Raphael's division. That was literally what Dominions existed to do. But Beelzeble... took things more seriously than most. They had made themself into the intermediary between all lower and higher angels, speaking on their behalf regardless of what division they belonged to, and getting more organization and actual hands-on management done than anyone else ever had, that was for certain.

After a while, the Archangels had voted to make them the official Prince of Heaven, Lord of the Flyers. Thousands of years from now, when the term for it existed, people would liken the position to being Heaven's union leader.

Beelzeble laid a scroll out on the conference table, smoothing it down. "Today I want to discuss miracle allotments, especially regarding those for principalities," they said. "I have been speaking with Haniel and Netzach abou--"

A leaf fell from their crown of laurel leaves and drifted onto the scroll. Gabriel jolted out of his chair, snatching it up at lightspeed and then immediately slowing his motions down. He brought a gentle hand up to Beelzeble's chin to tilt their head, and tucked the leaf back in place very carefully.

"Here," he said, with all of his attention completely zeroed in on the dominion.

"Thank you, Archangel," they said brusquely, a hint of color on their cheeks. "Now--"

"You can call me Gabriel."

Beelzeble gave them a hard look. "Back to the matter at hand," they said. "Principalities, or as they've been colloquially calling themselves, 'guardian angels,' will be doing a very different form of work from the rest of Heaven. Just because it isn't a form of Creating doesn't mean it won't require massive amounts of miraculous power, moreso than most of the other Choirs will be using in their day-to-day..."

To be clear, _this _is why meetings with Beelzeble were unbearable. The angel themself was actually perfectly professional, efficient, and refreshing to work with. Raphael thought them to be one of the most trustworthy and level-headed angels Heaven had. It was the way Gabriel acted around them that was the problem.

The meeting went on for some nebulous amount of time before it ended with a unanimous vote to raise the cap on principality miracles. Michael and Raguel had opposed it at first, but Raphael and Remiel tag-teamed them into agreeing. 

Then they got derailed with a long and unnecessary argument about where the Powers were assigned, which changed nothing and happened every single time the Archangels had a meeting.

_Finally, _they all filtered out of the conference room feeling varying levels of disgust and annoyance.

Raphael slowed his pace to fall back with Beelzeble, who had Gabriel hanging off their side like a pest they couldn't get rid of, as expected.

"Hey," he said. "Uh, Gabriel, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with Dominion Beelzeble for a moment."

"Oh sure, I don't mind," he said, and stayed right where he was.

"...In private."

"Oh! Oh, right, of course," he said. "I'll just, I'll go over here, then."

Gabriel left to hover a mere ten feet away. Raphael suppressed a sigh, and Beelzeble turned their head to hide a look of fond exasperation.

"You wished to speak with me, Archangel?" they asked. An enchantment shimmered around them, keeping the conversation out of prying ears.

"Yes," he said. "It's about my companion's behavior. I realize Gabriel can be a tad... overbearing, and he certainly isn't the most subtle--"

"Ieugh, um," Beelzeble cut in, uncharacteristically out of sorts. "Your concern is appreciated, Archangel, but entirely unnecessary."

"It is?" he asked. "He isn't making you uncomfortable at all?"

"...No."

"Dominion, I realize this can be awkward to discuss, but I can assure you, I take workplace harassment quite seriously. Any complaints you have will not be held against you, professionally or otherwise, and I _can _make sure--"

"It's not a problem," Beelzeble said. "At all."

Raphael paused, frowning. He drew in a breath to speak--

"I am not... averse, to Archangel Gabriel's advances," they said, face redder than it had been in the meeting.

Raphael felt a bit of heat creep up his own face. "I see," he said. "Alright, well given that, please try to--"

"I have not shown any ounce of unprofessionalism during a meeting," they snapped. "Any issues with conduct you have should not be taken up with _me."_

He nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. May God be with you, Dominion Beelzeble."

He speedwalked away, pretending not to hear the rustle of wings behind him as Gabriel rushed to Beelzeble's side.

* * *

Being an archangel was a lot of management and paperwork and reviews.

Raphael sat down and tried to remember every miracle he had felt his angels perform since the last time he had sat down to record them. He only "felt" the miracles the same way he "felt" calls to meetings: a different angel had beamed them into his brain. And then he began working his way through the list of tasks he had been given from each Choir of angels within his division.

The Cherubim needed nothing. There were only four of them, and they were... Well. "Soulless" wasn't accurate. Lacking free will, that was it. Cherubim, simply put, did as they were ordered. Nothing more and nothing less. Massively powerful creatures, capable of great and awe-inspiring deeds-- when directed. Each Archangel had four of them at their disposal.

The Thrones, who all took the form of extremely elderly humans, were another story. They were the prayer-collectors, and Raphael had been forwarded 186 prayers during this segment of non-time, and he sighed and began trudging his way through all of the messages, dictating responses and sending them back via the Thrones.

The Dominions, which were lower-angel management. Raphael only had and needed one, Beelzeble, and if they had had anything relevant to report or ask, they would have done so earlier.

The Virtues, the miracle performers. Updates on the Creation of Alpha Centauri, along with visual manifestations and projections for the scope of the project. Requests for his personal oversight on some aspects. Notes of conflict over use of space with Uriel's Powers. Great.

His own Powers, of course, were the source of 90% of the prayers he had just received, and almost all of them were angry or passive aggressive letters about having too many duties and not enough time and not enough Powers in the ranks. He responded to them all with the same stock reply that the Archangels had had a whole meeting to come up with, and then sent his own prayer to Uriel about it that was, admittedly, snippy.

The Principalities were asking when time would start and what assignments they would get, which Raphael simply couldn't answer. The archangels had no news to report, meaning they hadn't fucked anything up, which was the best case scenario. And the lower angels reported only one injury during a routine training exercise. Someone had gotten their back cut up while sparring, and could Raphael please come down to the barracks and look at it?

* * *

Raphael snapped on latex gloves as he entered the infirmary. There was only two beds occupied, a pair of angels sitting on them across from each other and talking, with Michael standing off to the side, arms folded and lips pursed.

"What happened?" Raphael asked.

Both lower angels immediately began talking at once.

Raphael held up a hand. "Is only one of you injured?"

A nod.

"Alright, you, is it? Yeah, okay. Tell me what happened, and nobody else say anything during that time."

"It was just an accident, really," the angel in question said, wringing his hands together. "Lehahaiah here simply tripped a bit while we were sparring and slashed into me a bit with her sword."

"I said sorry," Lehahaiah said.

"An unforgivable mistake," Michael said darkly. "True failure, both of form and dignity."

"Alright, Lehahaiah, Michael, you can go, continue that in the hall if you like. Let's afford..."

"Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale, right. Let's give him some privacy while I treat the wound. If you please."

The two other angels exited, and Aziraphale hesitantly shrugged his robes off his upper body, sitting tense on the bed.

"I could have miracled it myself, really," he said. "I told the General that."

"Best not to take any chances," Raphael said. "Angels are less skilled at healing themselves than they are others, especially if it's outside their specialty. And a holy weapon injures the soul, not the corporation. A slapdash healing could leave you scarred for life, or worse, limit your mobility. Muscular strength and range and all that. This looks like it went through deep tissue," he said. "Not that I think your miracles would be slapdash or anything, it's just--"

Aziraphale nodded. "I understood what you meant, my dear."

"Excellent," Raphael said, his face heating. He should look into that. Get rid of his blood, maybe.

He cleaned the wound with holy water and soft cotton, wiping away ichor and willing more not to spill. It was mostly contained to Aziraphale's shoulder, really, though it did trail down and inwards on his back a bit. It seemed so _wrong _to see, like it was some fundamentally horrible thing that should never have been allowed to happen. And it was exactly that, of course, Raphael thought. An injured angel was an affront to all of Heaven.

Once it was clean, he waved his hand above the wound with painstaking slowness, taking care to repair every vessel, every nerve, every sinew of muscle, every separated layer of skin, until it was really and truly as good as new.

"There," he said. "Can you move your arm in a circle for me? Excellent. Twist your torso from side to side? Does anything hurt?"

"No," Aziraphale said. "I've never felt better."

"Okay. I'm going to give you a stress ball. You don't actually need it. But keep it for... some time, and squeeze it occasionally, to make sure your muscle's doing okay. Alright?"

"Of course," he said, pulling his robes back on fully. He no longer seemed self-conscious, hadn't for a while. "Forgive me, my dear, but I don't believe I know your name."

"Raphael."

"Raphael," he said, slowly, testing the sound out. "That's quite lovely. Well, Raphael, thank you ever so much for your care. I truly felt that I was in the finest hands in the Kingdom." He gave a gentle smile, flicking his eyes up to his halo, and then over to Raphael's, his eyes glinting with something that could be called anticipation or maybe mischief. "I do look forward to seeing you again."

He walked away right as Raphael's brain short-circuited.


	2. Stardusted

In Heaven, angels had been using their halos to signify their relationship status since... since Heaven existed. Blue light was available, yellow light was in a relationship, green light was both (for those angels who enjoyed multiple partners), and white light was the gag rule. If you inquired about anything relating to sex and/or romance from an angel wearing white light, they were legally allowed to enact non-permanently-damaging violence upon your person. Even if it had not been overt, or in pursuit of anything for oneself at all. It was entirely up to the discretion of the one transgressed.

Raphael had been wearing white light since the custom arose, and only very recently switched to blue, after several increasingly pointed speeches from the other Archangels that weren't technically directed at Raphael in particular. One noteworthy occasion had been the time Raguel had assembled the entire Host to give a speech on free love, the nature of angels, the giving nature of love as an inherently holy thing, and how some angels (he had looked directly at Raphael) really just needed to loosen up and get laid.

Sometimes Raphael thought the Archangels were _too_ familiar with each other.

And then Michael had delivered an impassioned counter-speech directly after, basically storming the platform, to rant about how those who do not feel a natural inclination towards love of that nature should not be ashamed and still express plenty of angelic platonic love, and how there was absolutely no pressure, and halfway through, Raphael had flipped his halo to blue and walked out of the auditorium before it could turn into A Thing. His horrible Choir had attempted to _talk _to him later, but he nipped that right in the bud, thank God.

But. Yes. His halo was blue, right now, and so was Aziraphale's, as had been made oh so poignantly clear by that look that he gave them.

And for another thing! _'I truly felt that I was in the finest hands in the Kingdom,' _what in Heaven's name did _that_ mean? Raphael literally hadn't touched him! At all! Even when cleaning the ichor from his wound, and even if he had slipped up then, he had still been wearing gloves! He was perfectly professional at all times, thank you very much.

Just... Just, whatever. Aziraphale. With the flirty looks and the little comments. Was Raphael supposed to be able to process this? Whatever. He wasn't gonna. He was going to ignore this entirely, and forget it happened, because he had really already spent far too much time overthinking it when it meant nothing and nothing happened. Fucking _moron._

Anyway. He had a project to oversee, on Alpha Centauri, very important. So he went to go check up on that.

* * *

Being a principality was, frankly, easy. Mostly because there was no work for them to do yet. They were the guardian angels, set to watch over and guide nations, groups, individuals-- all human. And there were no humans yet. So.

But Aziraphale actually did have an assignment. The only assignment.

He was to be the Guardian of Eden. He would care for the first humans, and stand sentry at the Eastern Gate.

There was only one gate. But God had been very clear. The Garden was in the east, and its gate was in the east, and this was apparently symbolic. She had not explained how.

Anyway. Currently, Aziraphale was building a big wall in the desert with big rocks. Gabriel had assigned him ten malakhim ("don't call them minions, Raguel and Uriel really got on my case about that. Apparently you can't say minion angels, or plain angels, or the unranked anymore.") to direct for use in the project. Aziraphale had sent them all out flying across the desert to find big, sturdy rocks. He was mixing the mortar and laying the stones himself. It wasn't that he didn't trust the malakhim or think they were competent, it was just... This was _his _assignment. The only assignment any principality had been given. It had to be done just right, perfectly, in his specific way that was impossible to define. He felt the urge to personally place each stone and make sure it was just right, a strong home to protect his future humans in.

His mind wandered as he worked, going to that beautiful seraphim from earlier. He wasn't stupid. He knew that six wings meant a seraphim. In fact, he was fairly certain he had heard the name Raphael before. But certainly he had never seen him; he would have remembered an angel like that.

Raphael had six wings of fathomless deep black, misted with nebulae and galaxies in dozens of colors, flecked white with stars. His eyes were fully yellowed and held slitted pupils, and his hair was a tumbling red-- just in case the wings alone didn't make it blatantly obvious what Choir he was from. The humanoid form was in vogue in Heaven, but it appeared that Raphael at least was still hanging on to the memory of being a flaming, six-winged red snake, the way all seraphim had been originally created.

Principalities weren't nearly so exciting. They didn't have the thousand eyes and wheels within wheels of the Thrones, the shocking, unnatural divine beauty of the Dominions, extreme enough to send humans into raptures, or the four heads of different beasts and strange body and four wings covered in eyes that cherubim had. Even the Powers were a bit more exciting-- they had the bodies of warriors, all young and fit and well-muscled.

It wasn't that Aziraphale was particularly dissatisfied with his corporeal form. It was just... fairly dull. Unexciting. He would blend in well enough with the humans, which he supposed was the point, though. And he quite liked his wings. They were pure white, which wasn't unheard of, but it was uncommon, and he kept them in perfect, gleaming condition. They were strong, and well-maintained, and shining.

The principalities had a level of Heaven set aside as dorms for them, and wing grooming was often a communal activity, done in circular chains. Angels would chat and talk and laugh and tease each other, straightening feathers, pulling out loose ones, squishing out mites. It was a highly social affair and the main source of all the really good gossip. Five minutes in one of lower-angel dorms would have you informed on everything you needed to know about whose halo had just changed color and who was getting married and what scandalous flowers so-and-so had worn the other day.

Angels were pretty big on flowers, to the point where one was not considered fully dressed without some form of vegetation. Angels had also invented flower language, just for the drama and the intrigue of it all. Principalities usually had crowns or scepters as their God-given gift, so it was common for them to weave their flowers around these things. Aziraphale, however, had been given a flaming sword. Which was not conducive to decorating. So he wore bands of laurel leaves around his wrists, to add flowers to when needed, and had a bit of vining wrapped around his halo. The halo did not, per se, exist physically. But light can be solid-ish if an angel really wants it to be.

Right now, he was wearing valerian and allamanda, which both meant almost the exact same thing and were a bit redundant, but, well. They looked so nice together. And it was true, too: Aziraphale was in a very nice mood and would be very accommodating, should anyone wish to flirt with him.

He had courted angels in the past. All from the Third Sphere of Choirs. And he had dabbled in a few affairs that were purely physical and platonic, no courtship involved. None of these had ever progressed to marriage and mating, but neither had they ended badly. Aziraphale was still on good terms with those angels, and considered them his friends.

But it had been a while. Not a long while, not by... pretty much anyone's standards, but still. He _enjoyed _courting, he liked the romance and the back-and-forth and the companionship, and he was quite good at it too. But frankly there were only so many more angels in the Third Sphere that he could date before he began to get an unfortunate reputation, and well, Raphael seemed interesting. Enticing. Different.

So yeah, it would be a lovely thing to woo him, Aziraphale decided.

* * *

The Archangels were having another meeting.

It was unclear how long it had been since the previous one, but it felt unduly short.

"First on the agenda," Michael said. "I motion that we invent time so that things may be measured in it. I need to be able to trust that my soldiers will be where I want them to be and doing what they're supposed to be, by the time I expect. I need to have a cohesive schedule, because the current arrangement is chaos."

"Yes," Samael agreed, faux gravely. "And I know for a fact that you've had a whole platoon doing exercises since three meetings ago, without any breaks. You're lucky they can't die from that."

"You're even luckier that Beelzeble hasn't heard about it," Raphael muttered.

"We can't invent time, though, because then days would start. God hasn't said the Earth is ready yet," Remiel said.

"True!" Raguel said.

"What if time only applied to Heaven?" Uriel said. "It exists in a pocket universe outside of physical plane of the other universe. We could start time here, and keep it paused there."

"All in favor," Michael said, and seven hands shot up.

"Awesome. So, I've invented this thing," Gabriel said. "It's for sending and receiving messages. Should make things much more efficient. It gives you a little pop-up for every prayer you receive and all the miracle notifications for your division, and certain things related to administration as well-- paperwork submissions, meetings summons, we can put stuff related to the passage of time in there too."

"What is it called?" Uriel asked, staring at the little rectangles he had passed out.

"A 'cell phone'."

"I love it," Samael said. "I don't have to write all that useless stuff in my head down now."

"Thank fuck," Raphael said.

"Language," Michael snapped.

"Thank God?"

"Blasphemy," Raguel said.

"It's 'thank Gabriel'," Gabriel said. "I did this, me, not God, I get all the credit. You're welcome."

"That's--"

"Thanks, Gabe," Raguel said, knuckling his hair. He gave him a slap on the shoulder for good measure, and Gabriel glared at the Archangel, straightening his hair back into order.

"What was that for?" he asked.

Raguel shrugged. "Someone's gotta keep your vanity in check. Can't have you developing a God complex. And who better than the rest of your Choir? We're a flock, Gabey, I'll always look out for you. Your hairstyle's ugly, by the way."

Gabriel's lips thinned.

In fairness, he was going through a phase right now, and his hair was down to just below his chin, pushed backwards and blown out for volume. He had also taken a random long strip of linen and wrapped it around his neck, called it a 'scarf.' Plus he had been working out more. Which was kind of sad, actually.

"Speaking of which, Gabriel, can you please stop flirting with Beelzeble during official meetings? It makes everyone uncomfortable. Do that on your own time," Raphael said. 

"Yes! Also," Remiel said. "I received a complaint recently that you called one of my malakhim a 'lowly sycophant'?"

Now, with time existing, Raphael could confidently say that the Archangels spent forty-five more minutes taking Gabriel to task after that.

* * *

Michael had this new 'schedule' thing.

It was hell, and Aziraphale hated it so bad.

First of all, he had to wake up at 0600 hours and report to the barracks for _six hours of training._ Every day! Awful. A form of torture.

At least he wasn't one of the Powers, though, Michael had them putting in twelve hours each on training before they reported to their Archangels to go do twelve hours of space maintenance. The Powers were extremely mad about this, and Beelzeble had recently coined the term 'strike' as a threat and warning for if things didn't change.

But yes, Aziraphale had six hours of training, one hour of cool down time, and then eight hours designated for working on the Garden. The remaining nine hours were his to do with as he pleased.

So far, he had spent a lot of time in the doors, chatting and braiding Hashmal and Vasiariah's hair, and now he was meandering around space, seeing what all was new.

And so you could imagine his delight when he found Raphael talking to a crowd of six Virtues.

The Virtues dispersed in a few minutes, wings carrying them to all different corners of space, and Aziraphale pushed his wings and sidled over.

"Hello, my dear," he said.

"Oh!" Raphael said. "Oh, uh, hi, Aziraphale."

"Hello," he said, and then realized he had said 'hello' twice. "So! Building the stars."

"Yeah," he said. "Well, I'm just the architect, really, it's the Virtues doing the majority of the work."

"Designing the stars themselves is hardly something to sneeze at, my boy."

"Ehh." Raphael waved a hand. "I've only built a few of 'em."

"Really?" Aziraphale asked. "Can I see?"

"Oh, uh-- sure," he said. His face was burning a bit red again. Aziraphale smiled. "Yeah, I've got one just over here, actually."

He primed all six of his star-stained wings, and Aziraphale swore he could see the feathers vibrating. Raphael took flight, and Aziraphale flew at his side.

They swooped through a nebula on the way, scrunching their eyes shut and coughing, before emerging on the other side. Aziraphale laughed, and Raphael sneezed then joined in.

"You're covered in stardust," Aziraphale said. "You look like you've been rolling in rainbow glitter."

"I have, haven't I?" Raphael said, trying to brush the stuff off of his arms. "A nebula's just a big mushroom cloud of multicolored dust. It's space glitter. Trust me, I should know."

"Oh, I have no doubt," he said, smiling. He fluttered forward and brushed a thumb across Raphael's cheek, wiping it off on his robes when it came away covered in dust. "Here. Oh. Some of this isn't coming off."

"Nah, those 're my freckles," he said. "They look like stardust 'cause they're, ya know, matched to each star I designed."

"Oh!" he said. "Oh, what an ingenious idea. Are they... arranged too, into constellations and such?"

"Yeah," he said. "They're all in the correct relation to each other, with where they would be in the sky. As viewed from Earth, anyway. And as much as is possible given the shape of the human form. That's what gave me the idea for the wings, actually, I just ran out of room."

"Lovely," Aziraphale said. "I don't know if I said that before, when I first met you, but your wings truly are quite striking. You should be proud."

Raphael's lips quirked. "That's a sin."

"Well, then I'll just have to be in awe for you," he said. "Now, which of these stars is yours? What am I looking at?"

"The Orion constellation," Raphael said. "Alright, you see that star right there? That's Rigel, I like that one, it's a good star. And next to it is Saiph, up there is Alnitak, up above it is Betelgeuse, across there is Bellatrix, but there's, just, a whole bunch of other stars also in there, only none of them are actually near each other, but they'll look like it, for the humans..."

* * *

After about two hours of flying all across the universe to look at the stars up close, they both decided that the stars were very pretty, but it was much easier to look at and explain constellations from a good distance away.

And so Aziraphale had taken Raphael by the hand and flown them both down to a patch of barren desert lined with a half-finished wall. Aziraphale put a small miracle around them, repelling the wind in a neat little bubble, which kept sand from blowing into them.

Raphael was speaking passionately about physics, using lots of gestures, never taking his eyes off the stars. Aziraphale was entranced.

"--and it takes a while to grow a star, ya know? 'Round 50,000,000 years to get to maturity, but time isn't turned on in this universe yet, so it's whatever. And I put a lot of hypergiants in the plans-- they're all over the place-- but I think they're all gonna burn out before the humans even get around to studying them, and then there'll just be a bunch of... fuckin' red dwarfs everywhere."

Aziraphale made a consoling noise.

"And I've put so much weird stuff out there, ya know? But what if the humans don't care? What if they just don't go studying it? I made this thing called dark matter. There are pulsars. The nebulae themselves! Every single one of them is a work of art, my Virtues have really outdone themselves! But how do I know that the humans will actually go out and look at them?"

"Oh, we can make sure," Aziraphale said. "Give them a little divine inspiration, to seek out evidence of God's majesty."

Raphael's brow wrinkled. He turned over to face Aziraphale. "Isn't that an abuse of power?"

The principality shrugged. "I don't think so," he said. "We're supposed to be educating them, aren't we? Well. I am. And I don't see why the divine instruction of the human race should be limited to just the Earth. Seems a bit... ignorant. Disrespectful, to just shrug off the majority of Creation. They need to understand the care and intelligence that went into the universe, and I don't think anything will show that better than... than this art of math you've made."

Raphael grinned.


	3. Idle Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much of Crowley is just them desperately wishing to be unknowable but also to be loved, they truly embody the struggle against the mortifying ordeal of being known lol
> 
> I WISH I could make up angel names like this, but no, these are all horrifically real
> 
> Also sorry this chapter starts off so dull? I kept trying to cut off the worldbuilding but it didn't wanna happen

Raphael looked at the shelves in their room dismally.

Full of plants. Flowers, mostly.

That was it, actually. There was the bed, there were the big glass doors to the balcony, there was shelving and tables and various flat surfaces for holding plants.

This was the standard arrangement in most angel dorms.

The problem wasn't the plants. The problem was that he had to choose one to wear that day, and no matter what they did, people (nosy seraphim) would read too much into it and then say things, horror of horrors.

And, the even worse problem was, they... wanted to choose one that conveyed they were open to the idea of courting, but also, they only wanted Aziraphale to understand that, but there was absolutely no way to make that happen.

Because Heaven fucking standardized flower language. And everybody knows it. And it has actually become the least subtle thing ever because of this.

They sighed and opened their goddamned scroll.

Arum, ardor zeal-- God no. Absolutely not. Asperula, agreeableness... maybe. They could do better. Hopefully. White camellia Japonica, perfect loveliness. Hm. Too much?

Chickweed. _Let us meet again. _Perfect, it was so vague.

Raphael smiled and plucked strands of greenery with almost impossibly small white flowers. They hung them in their hair, woven into tiny braids.

* * *

"The Powers _will _be given breaks and I don't care what needs to be done to ensure it," Beelzeble said.

"Well, that's easy for you to say," Gabriel said. "Not that you're wrong, it's just..."

_"Maybe _if they didn't have to spend _twelve fucking hours_ training every day..." Raguel trailed off.

"They are warriors first and foremost," Michael said.

"I don't like that," Uriel said. "The Powers have dual duties specifically because no angel is meant to be a warrior above all else."

"I am," Michael said.

"You guys are forgetting that war is coming," Samael said. "Just because they aren't here yet doesn't mean we will never have to deal with demons. And we don't know where they will come from or how they will be brought into existence, either. All we know is that they will try to steal and hurt the humans, for reasons unknown. We need to be prepared to fight back against that. Heaven needs an army."

"Heaven is already an army," Gabriel said. "A standing, peacetime army. We all have ranks. We all train. Is twelve hours of daily exercise really doing that much more good than six hours? Is there, honestly, a noticeable difference?"

Raphael pointed at him with a quill, staring at Michael.

She folded her arms. "The Powers are our elites. They're all in peak condition, they are all close combat experts, they are all extensively trained on strategy, extraction, deescalation, and interrogation."

"Interrogation?" Uriel asked. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"Asking questions," Michael said innocently.

"So you won't mind if I just audit this training, then, will you?" Raguel asked.

Michael's lip curled, probably involuntarily. "Of course not."

Beelzeble flicked their eyes between the two of them. "I want a minimum of four hours free time per day for every single one of the Powers, no exceptions."

"Cut four hours from training," Uriel said.

"So they can spend a full twelve keeping asteroids from knocking into each other?"

"Uriel, Raphael, and I are still building space, and if it destroys itself before its even done because you guys wouldn't let us have enough maintenance workers, I will personally come after your heads," Remiel said.

"Alright, let's tone that down," Raguel said. "There's no need for death threats, or... torture. Heaven is a peaceful place. And we're all in agreement! We'll take two hours from training and two hours from maintenance to give the Powers a mandatory four-hour rest period, and this will not be infringed upon under any circumstances, and I'm going to audit their training sessions. Alright? Meeting adjourned."

"Hey, _I'm _the one who announces things," Gabriel said. Raguel's lips thinned.

Gabriel waited until everyone was looking at him and then he waited some more. He smiled. "Meeting adjourned."

Remiel rolled her eyes and muttered a curse as she stood up. Raphael smothered a snort.

And, sure enough, as soon as they left the room, they were viciously ambushed by both Remiel and Samael, the evil traitors.

"Nice flowers ya got there, Raph," Remiel said. "So. Who'd you meet?"

"That is literally none of your business."

"Oh, but you _want _to tell us, don't you?" Samael said. "It's so tempting. You've just met someone new, and it's so exciting. Aren't you just bursting with the need to tell us? To tell someone? And who better than your closest flockmates? Come on. We only want to help."

"What the fuck is that, a temptation? Go away."

Remiel used a small miracle to levitate high enough to comfortably throw an arm around his shoulders. "Raph," she said. "Lemme give it to ya straight. I will find out. And it'll go better for you if you just cooperate straight away."

"What the fuck," they repeated. Raphael shimmied out from under Remiel's grip. "This is why I tell you people nothing."

"We're your best friends!" Samael shouted.

"I have no friends!" they returned.

"I am your friend whether you like it or not!" Remiel said, marching to catch up. She poked them pointedly as she drew near, and Raphael jolted at the electricity.

"Ow! Hey!"

The angel of thunder shook the remaining lightning off her finger. The main imprints of it never left her skin, of course, but the patterns were different from the actual lightning she wielded. A lot different. Namely, they were just skin patterns, they remained still, and they didn't _fucking hurt._

"Bit of static," she lied.

"It's never a bit of static," Raphael said, and Remiel shrugged.

"We're going to find out!" Samael said.

"Not if I never talk to you again!"

Remiel blew a raspberry at them.

* * *

Aziraphale had considered his flower choices carefully that day. Lunaria, with strange, roundish white petals, looking very alien indeed. They meant honesty and fascination, and, well, Aziraphale had an honest fascination.

Plus, he thought the space-themed flowers would be appreciated by the stars' very designer.

And then he went about his day, heading off to his six hours of exercises. Nilaihah was waspish and brutal, and other principalities whispered about tensions upstairs, apparently the bad mood could be traced back to Michael directly. Aziraphale pursed his lips and vowed that it would stop with him. As a point of fact, he went out of his way to be gentle towards his platoon today, his malakhim and few archangels receiving boundless understanding and encouragement.

If nothing else, _Aziraphale’s_ platoon was well-cared for.

He spent his three hours working under Dominion Nilaihah with other principalities, and then three more hours directing and training up his own soldiers, before taking his ten chosen malakhim down into the main universe to work on the garden wall. Which roughly translated into telling them to find very good rocks and sending them all off in different directions very far away from him, and then rejecting over two thirds of the rocks they brought back as not being good enough.

He was fairly certain they were mostly just dicking around in the desert. Which was perfectly fine by him. He really just wanted to be left alone to do his own work in peace.

His malakhim came and went, dropping off rocks very rarely, one by one, and disappearing immediately. About three hours in, though, he felt a lingering, hesitant presence hanging behind him, and he let out a deep sigh he was sure wouldn’t be noticed.

“Do you have a que—” He turned around, and there was Raphael. “Oh. Well, hello.”

“I would say sorry for interrupting your work,” they—hm, yes, _they, _Aziraphale could sense—said. “But to be honest, I think it’s only fair. You did the same to me yesterday.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, well I suppose I could suffer a break, but only for you, dear. I’ve got this terribly important nonexistent deadline, what with time on hold in this universe.”

“Ah, yeah, wouldn’t wanna be caught unawares by that.” Raphael shuffled forward, still awkward and hesitant, and Aziraphale melted a little bit in crushing fondness. He took mercy on the poor thing and approached them himself, taking Raphael’s hands in his own and leading him over to a pile of rocks waiting to be used. They sat down together, but when Aziraphale went to pull his hands away, Raphael’s grip tightened instinctively.

Aziraphale smiled gently, and kept his hands where they were.

Raphael, meanwhile, was having a crisis. They felt so stupid. This was all so incredibly unprofessional? They’ve literally talked to Aziraphale _twice. _Twice! And once in a medical context! There was no reason for them to be doing this! Seeking the principality out, pulling them away from work—they barely know each other!

There’s certainly no reason Raphael should be so worked up and _emotional _over this. It was disgusting. Demeaning. Shameful.

What were they, a fucking fledgling with their first crush? Raphael was an Archangel and a seraph! They were older than this very universe itself! Literally the only being who could rightly be said to be older than them was God Herself.

And yet here Raphael was, shifty and awkward and nervous while pulling aside a principality for what was clearly flirting purposes.

A chilling thought rushed over their bones like water.

“You know you don’t have to—” Raphael’s face was burning, and they considered spontaneous discorporation. “I mean, you aren’t—you aren’t _obligated, _to entertain me, or—”

Aziraphale chuckled and stroked over Raphael’s hand with his thumb. “Oh, you needn’t worry about that, darling,” he said. “I never do anything I don’t want to do. You can rest assured that I am always very upfront with all my lovers about exactly what I believe we are doing.”

Lunaria blooms brushed against Raphael’s hands, soft and scratchy at the same time, bound around Aziraphale’s wrists.

“I’ve never done this before,” they said. “Was never particularly interested. So I don’t—I’m not exactly sure what all of the rules are. Have no clue what I’m doing. Just a fair warning.” They gave a smile that was really more of a grimace.

“There are no rules,” Aziraphale said. “Everyone just does what they want. And if you don’t want to do anything, then you don’t have to.”

“No, I—” Raphael sighed. “It’s not that. It’s just, I’m figuring things out, but I’m really far too old to be doing that, so I’m giving you a warning ahead of time—I’ll need a bit more patience than most, if you think it’s worth the bother.”

“If nothing else,” Aziraphale said, bringing Raphael’s hand up to his lips and placing a kiss on it. “I’d be delighted to help you figure things out.”

* * *

Time passed in the way that time now passed. Raphael made a habit of visiting the Garden’s construction site down on Earth, and soon enough they settled into arriving just as Aziraphale’s work shift was ending. The two of them would sit on the piles of rocks, or lay down in the sand, or fly through the vacuum of space, chasing and laughing and grinning.

The garden wall grew day by day, and every night, space looked brighter and more colorful than the last.

Sometimes Raphael levitated without noticing, rising slightly and walking on air just a bit above Heaven’s floors.

Remiel teased them mercilessly.

She had set spies on him about three days in and had quickly found out Aziraphale’s identity, and then told all the other seraphim, because she was a dick. Samael had thought it was fucking hilarious, Gabriel had called him a hypocrite, and Raguel and Uriel offered him blessings. Michael couldn’t have cared less.

Apparently, the General had passed his audit, though Raguel was very pursed-lips about the whole thing and regarded it suspiciously.

Heaven was peaceful, and sleepy, and loving, as it always was. And Raphael truly felt it. They felt the love and the warmth of their home, the beauty of it.

Heaven felt like Heaven.

Raphael walked on air.

* * *

“So, Aziraphale,” Imamiah said. “Who’s your new beau?”

Aziraphale was in the plushly decorated common area of the principality dorms. He was in a wing grooming circle with six other angels, each sitting behind the other in a chain, pillows and blankets and soft furnishings arranged carefully around them all.

He ran his fingers through Nithael’s wings, searching for loose feathers. Angels molted in the same way that birds of prey did, neither able to afford being grounded for any length of time. Instead of happening all at once, they were essentially in a constant minor molt. Sometimes feathers would simply disconnect so new ones could grow in their place, and then the old feathers were left hanging loose in the wing, and would need to be brushed out.

Also, feathers needed straightened and oiled and angel wings tended to collect things that were not quite mites, due to not existing physically, but were a bit like ethereal space pebbles. Just a bit of celestial grime-blobs, really, tiny things.

“And who says I have a new beau?” Aziraphale asked, not pausing in his work.

Poyel snorted from the other side of the circle.

“Everyone,” Nanael said.

“Just tell us,” Vehuel said. “Or else Imamiah’s going to make something up.”

“I would not,” Imamiah protested weakly.

“Well, as ever, I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint,” Aziraphale said. “But I’m not sure they’d be comfortable with me telling anyone just yet.”

“Ugh!” Nanael said. “C’mon, you gotta give us something to work with. Anything. A hint.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. Imamiah’s eyes gleamed.

“Can you at least tell us what Choir they’re in?” she pounced.

“…No, I think I’d rather not, actually.”

“Oh my God,” Nithael muttered, and at least four angels tittered, flapping their wings and resettling in their seats.

Mebahiah leaned forward, beige and brown and black faded wings tilting back behind xem. “So it’s one of _those _Choirs, huh?”

“I have _no _clue what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said primly.

“You totally do,” Poyel said. Grayed blue and periwinkle wings draped elegantly to their sides. “Your new lover is of one of those Choirs that’s got so very few angels in it, aren’t they? What are they, a dominion?”

“Ew, are you dating Nilaihah?” Imamiah asked. Nanael elbowed her.

“No, I’m not dating Nilaihah! What do you take me for?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh my God, please tell me it’s Beelzeble,” Vehuel said. “That’d be hilarious. They’ve had the fucking _Archangel Gabriel_ hanging off their wings for months now—”

“It’s not Beelzeble! Don’t go telling people that!”

“Then who is it?” Nithael asked. “Because there’s only so many dominions. Seven, to be precise. There’s Kamael, Haaiah, Muriel, Vasiariah, Beelzeble, Nilaihah, and Reiiel. Vasiariah’s mated, Muriel’s a no-go, you said it wasn’t Nilaihah or Beelzeble, and that just leaves Kamael, Reiiel, and…”

“Haaiah,” Vehuel supplied.

“I feel like it can’t be Kamael,” Imamiah said. “The man loves the thrill of battle far too much to ever make room in his heart for an angel, you know?”

Nanael made a sound of agreement.

“Alright, let’s narr—”

“They aren’t even a dominion!” Aziraphale said. “And you are entirely too fixated on this! Isn’t there any other better gossip out right now?”

“Ooh! I heard that Ariel asked Selaphiel to be her escort to the wedding next week!” Nanael said.

“Oh hey, speaking of which, Raphael asked if I would be one of the singers for the reception,” Vehuel said.

“Really?”

And with that, Aziraphale’s love life was forgotten in favor of wedding planning.


End file.
